ed to
tell you of my own for Adrian._ This she addressed and then rang the
bell.

And as she stood waiting for a servant to come, there was a rap on the
door and her father entered. He looked at her for an instant and rubbed
his hands. "It is chilly here, Eden," he said; "had you not better come
down-stairs?"

"Is it worth while? It must be late. Where is Parker? has she not come
with my things?"

"Yes; it is almost six o'clock. Parker--"

"Six! I thought it was midnight. How long have I been here?"

"Three or four minutes at most. I had a note to write. So soon as I
could do so I followed you at once. You are quite yourself again, Eden,
are you not?"

"I can understand," mused Eden, "that there are years that count double
when there are moments that prolong themselves as have these." "Yes,"
she answered, aloud. "I am better. I will come with you."

She picked up the message she had written and left the room. In the
hallway was the servant for whom she had rung. "Take this to Fifth
Avenue," she said. "There is no answer, but see that it is delivered in
person."

XII.

"It is pleasanter here, is it not, Eden?" Mr. Menemon asked, when they
reached the sitting-room. "It makes one think of old times, doesn't it?
Do you remember--" And Mr. Menemon rambled on with some anecdote of days
long past.

Eden gazed at him wonderingly. His words passed her by unheeded. It was
bewildering to her that he could accept the tragedy so lightly, and as
he spoke she kept repeating to herself that Virginius was part of a
world long dead and derided. Truly, she could not understand. He seemed
conscious of no wrong doing. The position in which she was placed
excited him so little that he was able to discourse in platitudes. She
was not wife nor maid nor widow, and for the man who had taken her from
her home and inflicted on her a wrong that merited the penitentiary, her
father expressed no indignation, no sorrow even. He did not even attempt
to condole with her. And it was to him she had turned. Truly, she was
helpless indeed. Yet still she gazed at him, expectant of some sudden
outbreak, some storm of anger which, though it parodied her own, would
at least be in unison with it. Her fingers were restless and her mouth
was parched, a handkerchief which she held she twisted into coils, it
seemed to her that were no word of sympathy forthcoming she would
suffocate, as the traveler in the desert gasps beneath the oppression of